


If you go out in the woods today

by MajorTrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adult Red Riding Hood, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Jaskier might also be a siren idk, Little Red Riding Hood AU, all the boys are here but not named, someone gonna get eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: @dinahdarling posted an idea about a Red Riding Hood AU (but make it dark) and then I just started typing and it cured my writer's block so. Thanks dove. Enjoy <3
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	If you go out in the woods today

The woods aren’t haunted. Not by ghosts. Not by wraiths. Not by something so _immaterial_ as all that. But the people who live near them never follow the paths through anyway. They know better. They take the long, looping trail over the plains to get to where they need to go. And they warn travelers to do the same. They tell them the stories, of others lost in the woods. Those who go in and never return. Those who follow the wide, inviting path lined with blood red poppies, and never come out the other side.

Of course, some don’t listen. They scoff at the locals’ fears, their silly _superstitions_. Because what could live in such a wood? Everything about it is beautiful - the tall, graceful trees; the way the warm sunlight streams and dances through the canopy of leaves; the sweet birdsong that trills through the air. 

And the voice. The voice that is just on the edge of hearing. Any who venture to the start of the path can begin to hear it. It’s soft and clear, enticing. And once a traveler sets foot on the path, it becomes louder, the notes swirling around them, calling them deeper. It’s a voice that brushes softly against the senses, like a gentle tug at the heart. It’s nearly impossible to resist for a curious traveler and seems to make their footsteps hasten along the path, deeper into the woods.

This is why the locals stay away - if you get caught by the voice, there’s no turning back. 

But for the traveler - this time a weathered, well-dressed man, perhaps of middling noble birth - he hears the voice and stops, listening intently as the sound of that perfect tenor lilts out and catches him. 

He sets his foot on the path. 

He follows it deeper into the woods. 

The voice gets stronger - richer - and chases all other thoughts out of the traveler’s head. He has to find out where it’s coming from. Surely the locals must be mistaken. No one with a voice like that can be dangerous. 

_Superstition._

Eventually, the trees grow closer together, and the path narrows, and he’s there. The source of that voice sits in front of him. It’s a young man. No more than twenty summers with a mop of thick, chestnut dark hair, and soft, delicate features with long, elegant fingers. He’s dressed in sturdy boots and dark clothes that are draped in a rich, deep red hooded cloak. Red like sunset. Red like the poppies. Red like fresh spilled blood. 

_Superstition_. 

He’s singing to himself, clearly not paying attention to anything else, eyes closed and propped up on the stump of a tree. His lips form the words of a song, but the traveler doesn’t know what they mean - can’t pick them out of the melody that swirls around him. He must make a sound, though, because the eyes of the singer open and they are blue like clear summer skies. He smiles, finishes his song and steps towards the traveler. 

“Hello,” he says, and his voice still sounds like song and the traveler feels like he could drown in it. “Are you lost?”

He opens his mouth to speak but finds he must swallow several times before the words will come out. “No. No, I - I heard your singing. And I - I thought - “

The singer hums softly. “You thought you’d come find me. Ah. Well,” he spreads his arms out, the cloak pooling around him in waves. “Here we are.” He holds his hand out. “Come. You must be thirsty. You’ve been walking for a while.”

And the traveler realizes he is. Without thinking, he takes the singer’s hand and walks beside him, following the red-cloaked man further into the woods. He feels something - a prickling feeling on his neck, like he’s being watched - but the singer smiles at him again and he ignores it. 

There’s a cottage, and a little garden, and the singer leads him inside, making him tea and chatting amiably the whole time. His face is bright and earnest and the traveler is set at ease. 

It is late afternoon before he realizes how long he’s been there and stands to make his excuses. It’s a few hours to the other side of the woods and the next village. 

“Oh, no, you should stay here the night,” says the singer. “You can meet my companions. I’m sure you’ll get along. Please, sit.” And he smiles again, quick as lightening. 

The traveler shakes his head and insists he must go. The singer frowns and stands with him, walking out of the cottage, into the garden.

And there are three men on the other side of the gate. They are lounging against the trees, at ease, until they catch sight of the traveler and the singer. 

The singer looks happy, clasping his hands together. “Ah! My companions! I’ve brought a guest. I hope you don’t mind.” The three men grin and the traveler swallows thickly because no one should show that many teeth when they smile. 

He studies the men for a moment. All of them bear scars, though one of them has them raked over his face, starting at his dark hair and ending at his sharp jawline. He is the most still of the three, watching through lidded eyes as the singer talks. One of the men is smaller, all lithe muscle and contained energy, his fingers taping out a rhythm on his thighs. And the last is shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed over his chest, bright white hair draped over his shoulders in a silver wave. 

As the sun dips lower, the traveler feels a shock go through him as he sees that their eyes are gold, and that they reflect that last rays of the dying light. His mouth is very dry now. 

He startles as the singer opens the gate, his hand in a vice-like grip around his elbow, nearly dragging him out of the garden. He’s speaking and his voice has lost that honeyed edge that had lulled him as he drank tea earlier.

“I think it’s time for some fun, wouldn’t you agree, my wolves?” And the three men _growl_ in unison. 

The traveler feels the icy fingers of fear now as the singer turns back to him, and his smile is all teeth as well. 

“How fast can you run, rabbit?” he asks, his voice soft and low. 

The traveler doesn’t answer but bolts off into the forest and he can hear the singer’s laugh, high and cruel, follow him. And right on the heels of that, the snarl of wolves as they give chase. He glances back and sees the shape of them - no longer men, but true wolves - bounding through the steadily darkening woods, and then he has no more thoughts except panic and survival.

No one comes to look for the traveler. The Continent is a harsh place to live, after all. But the locals know. And they tell their children stories about keeping out of the woods. Lest you get eaten by the wolves.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you so much for reading please feel free to come yell at my on tumbr: @major-trouble


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